


To Fall

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5020951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He spoke from tabletops all the time. He preferred it that way, actually. They were sturdier than chairs, and gave him more room to turn and make points to people on opposite sides of a room. To leap up to a tabletop was such an instinctive motion for him that he had completely disregarded Combeferre’s earlier warning about this particular table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Fall

“I _did_ warn you about that table,” Combeferre reminded him as they reached the top of the stairs.  
  
Enjolras huffed and did not dignify the reprimand with a response. The medical student had insisted upon acting as a crutch for him on the walk back from the Musain (which had taken four times longer than usual), and Enjolras was beyond frustrated. He was uncomfortable, yes, but he could walk perfectly well on his own. If one more person tried to fuss over him, he was going to lock himself in his room for a week.  
  
“There weren’t even enough of us there to justify climbing on the table. We could all hear you perfectly well from the ground,” Combeferre continued his scolding, pulling his key from his coat pocket.  
  
Enjolras grumbled quietly to himself as he waited for Combeferre to unlock the door. The whole sequence of embarrassing events continued to repeat itself in his mind, the throbbing pain in his ankle serving as a constant reminder.  
  
It had all happened very quickly. Somewhere in the midst of his speech, he’d climbed atop his chair for a better view of his audience. There was something about being up high that made a speech more inspiring, more effective. His passion had gotten the better of him, and he’d leapt up onto the table a moment later.  
  
This was not an unusual occurrence. He spoke from tabletops all the time. He preferred it that way, actually. They were sturdier than chairs, and gave him more room to turn and make points to people on opposite sides of a room. To leap up to a tabletop was such an instinctive motion for him that he had completely disregarded Combeferre’s earlier warning about this particular table. One leg was shorter than the others, and an old book stuffed beneath it was the only thing keeping the table from wobbling like a top.  
  
The book had slid from its place when he’d landed on the table, and before he could quite figure out what was happening, the world had turned sideways. In the great scrambling of bodies that followed, Bahorel had caught the table before it landed on top of him. Grantaire had caught Enjolras, or attempted to. The damage had already been done by that point, and the cynic had done little beyond providing a slight cushion to his fall.  
  
There was no continuing his speech after that. His friends were too busy fussing to listen to his reassurances that he was fine. Yes, he’d rolled his ankle on the way down, but his ankle had nothing to do with his ability to speak. Why couldn’t they see how inconsequential the injury was and let him finish?  
  
“Sit down and we’ll get your boot off,” Combeferre took his coat from him, drawing his attention back to the present. At last, his friend seemed content to allow him to stand on his own strength.  
  
Enjolras eyed his desk longingly. If he couldn’t finish his speech, the least he could do was fine-tune it for the future. If he started now, he could be done by morning.  
  
Combeferre stepped into his line of sight and put a hand to his shoulder, “Sit.”  
  
Enjolras immediately shrugged the hand away and snapped, “I’m _fine_. There’s no reason to treat me like a child.”  
  
“Nor is there a reason for you to behave like one. Now, _sit_.” The shorter man narrowed his eyes, daring him to argue further.  
  
He nearly did. As he opened his mouth to protest, Enjolras saw something in his friend’s face that made him pause. It was subtle, as most things with Combeferre tended to be, but Enjolras knew his friend well enough to spot it. The slight wrinkling of his brow, the tight set of his jaw, the way he picked at the skin of his hands — this was not an angry Combeferre, but a worried one.  
  
Enjolras looked away and sat without a word.  
  
Combeferre sat on the floor before him, taking the injured ankle into his lap, and set about removing the boot. While his every instinct demanded that he pull his foot away and tend to it himself, Enjolras did his best to remain still. The joint was swollen and tender, but Combeferre’s fingers were gentle and cool as they prodded the bruises.  
  
“Well?” Enjolras asked through clenched teeth as his foot was rotated in a way that sent pain shooting through the joint.  
  
“It’s sprained, but not badly,” Combeferre reassured him. “I’ll wrap it for you. If you can manage to stay off it for a few days, I think it should heal quickly.” He looked up at Enjolras, spectacles sliding down his nose, “Are you hurt anywhere else? I thought I saw you hit a chair before Grantaire caught hold of you…”  
  
Enjolras shook his head, “A few bruises. Nothing to worry about.”  
  
“You’re certain?”  
  
He couldn’t help but smile at this, “I would not dare to lie to you, my friend.”  
  
This seemed to satisfy Combeferre, who disappeared into the kitchen to seek out his supplies. As he sat wrapping the ankle a few minutes later, Enjolras broke the uneasy silence that had settled between them.  
  
“I am sorry to have worried you.”  
  
Combeferre paused, one hand supporting the ankle tenderly, the other clutching the roll of bandages with a trembling fist. It took him almost a minute to find the words to speak, “To see you fall like that…I would be lying if I said I don’t have nightmares about it.”  
  
“About me falling from tabletops?” Enjolras tried to meet his friend’s gaze, but the medical student was once again absorbed in the task of tending the ankle.  
  
“The tables in the Musain are one thing,” he said, tying off the bandage, “but someday you will fall from something higher, and I won’t be able to help you.”  
  
Suddenly, Enjolras understood.  
  
Carefully, to avoid jostling his ankle, he slid from his seat to join Combeferre on the floor. He took his friend’s hand and squeezed it gently, “I should have listened to your warning. I will try to do so from now on.”  
  
Combeferre smiled and embraced him, “That is all I ask.”


End file.
